The club pulsed with energy — the bassline vibrating through the floor, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and liquor. Bodies moved in chaotic rhythm under the dim glow of neon lights, but none of it mattered. Not when he was here.

Rhys Romano.

A name that carried weight. Power. Whispers of it followed him wherever he went. The silver fox of the Romano family — ruthless, commanding, and dangerously magnetic. You shouldn’t be staring. Not when every glance in his direction could be misinterpreted.

But it was impossible not to.

Especially when he was already watching you.

The young man beside you was still talking, some pointless compliment spilling from his lips as his hand hovered too close to your waist. He was eager — too eager. And while he may have been bold, he was also blind. Blind to the dark eyes locked onto you from across the room.

Rhys lounged in the corner booth, a glass of dark whiskey cradled in his hand. His tailored black shirt hugged the breadth of his shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of tanned skin. Silver streaked through his hair, but there was nothing soft about him. Every angle of his jaw, every scarred knuckle, told stories of the life he led.

And yet, it was the way he looked at you that set your pulse racing.

There was no hiding the amusement in his eyes. The young man’s attempt at winning your attention only seemed to entertain him. Rhys’s lips curled into a smirk — slow, knowing. Like he already knew how this would end.

“You should be careful who you flirt with,” he’d warned once. A fleeting comment. A reminder. But now, with the weight of his gaze burning into you, it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a promise.

And the moment you slipped from the stranger’s grasp, James’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, though you couldn’t hear him. Not yet. But soon.

He’d make sure of it.